


Label

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One warning from a lion to a snake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Label

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpesAbrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpesAbrin/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He was awful in seventh year. He’s been awful since first year, but Neville wasn’t strong enough to do anything about it, then. Seven years of abuse and a Death Eater explosion have changed that; Neville’s sick of being the one held down. 

He pins Draco Malfoy to the wall in a small alcove, tucked away from the main corridor, where Draco’s latest victim of torment—some poor first year—has already scampered away. There are no teachers about, no Crabbe and Goyle to play rescue, and no room for wands—Neville’s got Draco’s frail wrists pinned to the wall, small and pale beneath his earth-tanned fingers. Draco’s been less of awful this year, but only because the hell he helped create isn’t as shiny as he thought it would be, and he’s still sometimes _unbearable_. The way he is now, trembling and terrified in Neville’s arms, is more of a reflection of what he is inside. The Dark Mark tattooed on his forearm doesn’t mean a thing; he wouldn’t have the courage to curse a rabbit. 

And still he spits barbs and digs into the skin of the poorer, and Neville growls at him, on behalf of everyone like how _Neville used to be_ , “You do that again and I’ll make you pay.” Draco’s silver eyes flicker up at him, full of hesitation. Maybe judging if he’ll do it. Gryffindors aren’t liars. 

This would be easier, really, if Draco fought back. But he doesn’t, and Neville has to push it forward. He lets go of one wrist, pressed against Draco’s body too tight to allow room to grab a wand, and he uses that one hand to grab a chunk of blond hair. Draco’s breath hitches as Neville wrenches it back. Magic can be traced. Hair pulling can’t. 

Finally, _finally_ , Draco swallows. He tries to look away as he drawls, _infuriating_ , “It’s none of your business, Longbottom.”

Neville tightens his fist and slams Draco’s head against the wall—Draco’s eyes scrunch in pain. He winces, whines, looks gaunt and hollow and so much worse for wear than the children he teases. Neville snarls, “I mean it. Just because Harry and Dumbledore aren’t here doesn’t mean there’s no one to call your bullshit.” He doesn’t mention the army of protégés, those that won’t be crushed. He expects Draco to mention the army of Death Eaters.

Instead, Draco hisses bitterly, still _pained_ , “Oh, is that it? You’re the one playing hero now? I notice you only save the golden ones.” And he tries to push Neville off, while Neville wonders what the hell that means. 

When Neville slams Draco’s body against the wall again, he holds Draco tighter, limbs all lined up, legs against his. No room to kick, no room to writhe. He’s stronger, and, he realizes, always has been. He’s breathing harder from the struggle. Neville insists, “I help those who need it.” So did Harry, so did Dumbledore. There’s something unnerving about the way Draco looks at him, piercing grey eyes and perfect body, still attractive under all the damage. Something’s changed in Draco’s posture. 

It takes Neville a second to realize what that is. His eyes dart down, and Draco’s follow, thin, pink lips parted slightly, no sound coming out. Neville swallows. 

Draco’s _hard_.

Neville rocks against it to be sure, couldn’t say why, just does, bites the inside of his lip to stifle a response, _glares_ at the Slytherin in his grip. He lets go of Draco’s hair and brings that hand back to Draco’s free wrist, though it hasn’t done anything. 

“You’re sick,” Neville hisses. “ _Sick._ ” But this explains things, doesn’t it? The constant string of shit behaviour for no reason. “You get off on picking on the weak?”

Draco snorts and drawls like he’s both given up and Neville’s an idiot, “Or from being treated rough by Gryffindors.” He lifts a pale eyebrow, just a little too despondent to look snarky.

Neville jerks away. This... isn’t going how he thought it would. Draco slowly recoils from the wall in his freedom, but Neville’s only two steps back. He _stares_ at the boy he thought he knew. 

But they’ve all been changing. 

Draco eyes him, up and down, and suddenly their positions have reversed. Draco mutters under his breath, clearly to himself, “Great, one more thing I don’t need.” And he takes a step back towards the corridor, looking over as though giving Neville a chance to stop him.

Neville’s got his own confusion to deal with, his own things he doesn’t _need_. He wonders vaguely if he’ll have Crabbe and Goyle coming after him tonight. He wonders if it should mean anything that it’s three months in and the first time he’s actually seen Draco pick on anyone: a new Malfoy record. He didn’t see how it started. It doesn’t matter.

He watches Draco disappear around the corner and wonders.

If Draco had done this in third year, would he have let Neville go?


End file.
